By Omission
by JubileeKnight
Summary: Rumors, lies and deliberate omissions. Mordecai is a cad, but to be fair, he's a miserable one. Pre-series.


A/N: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci and all characters and settings appearing in this fic are the property of Diana Wynne Jones's estate. This story was somewhat inspired by MinutiaR's "Just as Well."

By Omission

Rosalie was enjoying her evening. She adored Dreschler, but so did most of England, and finding seats at his operas was nearly impossible these days. The first act had been every bit as magical as she'd imagined when the opera house announced it would stage _Josephine._ For more of a wonder, her companion had not once complained about the sentimentality of the plot. Mordecai was far more of a sentimentalist than he affected, Rosalie knew (she had _seen_ his collection of novels) but he _would_ criticize.

She sat back as the curtain fell on intermission and fanned herself. The press of people and the number of lights always made the opera house so hot. "You must tell me how you found these tickets, Mordecai," she said.

"I can't reveal my secrets," said Mordecai with too bright a smile for even a _pretense_ at dramatics. "How else will I talk you into coming out with me again?"

Rosalie pursed her lips, trying not to smile herself at the implications of 'again.' "Heaven knows how you managed it this time," she said primly.

"I counted on your fondness for Dreschler spilling over to me, of course," said Mordecai. "Has it worked?"

Rosalie sniffed lightly, but couldn't entirely quell some hint of affection. "Provided you don't squirm so during another aria," she said. "Perhaps a bit."

"I had a pebble in my boot," Mordecai protested. "You could hardly hear me."

"It was distracting," she said, more snappishly than she intended. She was unaccountably nervous this evening, but Mordecai did bring out the worst in her sometimes. "If you weren't so fond of those shoes-"

Mordecai looked wounded. "You've no appreciation for a fine pair of boots," he retorted.

"I'm well aware of the value of your boots, Mordecai," said Rosalie witheringly. "I reviewed your last expense report."

He sat up straighter. "I maintain that was a valid claim."

" _Handmade calfskin boots._ "

"One can't skimp on quality and make any kind of proper showing in society," he said with an irritatingly smug smile.

He _enjoyed_ provoking her!

"That's all well and good," said Rosalie. "But one needn't expect Accounts to finance one's showing in society."

"They were destroyed in the line of duty!" said Mordecai, indignantly.

"They were slightly chewed by a dog after you threw them at the poor creature," Rosalie retorted. "You're fortunate the owner didn't bring a complaint."

Mordecai slouched back in his seat. "That poor creature was a massive guard dog that would have torn Flavian and me limb from limb," he said. "I only threw the left one at it after it practically tore the right one off me." He sat up again to add earnestly, "I saved our lives!"

Flavian's account had been slightly less melodramatic, but he had conceded the danger. "You weren't supposed to be in that warehouse in the first place," Rosalie pointed out.

"We were following a lead," said Mordecai. "A successful one, as even you have to admit."

The 'even you' rather stung. Rosalie pursed her lips. "You did a fine job, Mordecai," she said, looking away and out of the box towards theatre below. "I merely pointed out that the Castle shouldn't be paying for its agents to wear the finest boots in London when a sensible pair will suffice perfectly well."

Offended silence answered her. Insufferable man! Oh, he meant well, Rosalie knew, but sometimes he was absolutely impossible. He turned even a pleasant evening out into an argument, and then he had the gall to act injured!

Although, in fairness, she _had_ been the one to begin tonight's spat.

Rosalie sighed. "I don't want to fight, Mordecai."

The silence lasted a moment longer. "I don't either," came the unusually subdued reply.

Rosalie closed her fan and reopened it. She smoothed the playbill in her lap. Finally, she turned back to him. "Mordecai-" she began.

But the moment was over. Briskly, he said, "I'd much rather you save that fierceness for our next match, you know."

Torn between disappointment and relief, Rosalie lifted her chin. "I shall be in top form, Mordecai. I expect you to be the same."

"I bowled very nearly a perfect game, I'll have you know," Mordecai said, sounding almost comfortable again.

"Nearly," said Rosalie, archly.

The bickered companionably about cricket for a few more minutes. Just as the warning call came out to prepare for the second act, Mordecai sobered abruptly. "Rosalie."

"Yes, Mordecai?"

"I've something to ask you. Something important."

It was _very_ warm in the theatre. Rosalie found herself slightly short of breath and very aware of the texture of the playbill in her lap. That was her only regret about the opera. There was so little air. "Yes, Mordecai?"

He cleared his throat, visibly nervous now. "I considered speaking to Gabriel first."

Gabriel? The ridiculous, adorable man! Had he actually debated asking their employer for her hand?

"But it might be better coming from you," Mordecai continued. "We both know Gabriel isn't my biggest fan."

She had to interrupt there. "Gabriel greatly values your talents, Mordecai!" she said. "He thinks very highly of you. He just wishes-" _She_ wished. "-you'd apply them a bit more seriously beyond work."

He broke in. "I have a plan!"

The nervousness was still there, but he was all energy and enthusiasm, and _this_ was the ambition of which she always wished to see more, as endearing as his foibles could be.

"I think I might be able to get an in with the Wraith," said Mordecai.

Rosalie drew a sharp breath. The Wraith gang had already proven itself highly resourceful in smuggling restricted items into Twelve-A from other worlds in the series. They were rising quickly to the top of Chrestomanci's list of domestic threats. They were also highly dangerous. They last two government agents who had even come close to gaining more information on them had disappeared without a trace.

Mordecai continued eagerly. "I could go to London, broach some contacts there. I have a few sources from that magic carpet case. This could be the making of my career. You always say I have no ambition, but I do, Rosalie. If you would only-"

Rosalie's cheeks burned. "For heaven's sake, Mordecai, stop rambling, of course I will!"

She succeeded in cutting through his babbling. The dark skin flushed. Mordecai's expression was suddenly, briefly, one which made the room feel twice as warm as it had. He faltered. "You will?"

Rosalie smiled. " _Yes_ , Mordecai." Her heart pounded.

He looked down, almost shyly. When he raised his eyes again, the heat in his gaze was transmuted into light, bright words. "You'll speak to Gabriel about the transfer? You're an angel, Rosalie! He won't take it seriously coming from me, but from you… I don't deserve a such a good friend."

His smile was _too_ happy. His voice _too_ grateful. Rosalie was humiliated. She'd thought he was going to offer his hand, and he'd only meant to ask for career assistance!

She attempted her usual exasperated smile. It came out slightly chillier than intended, but Rosalie thought herself justified in feeling a little put out. Really, even _Mordecai,_ flighty as he was, ought to have realized how he sounded (it was a blessing he hadn't actually proposed, between Dreschler and the warmth of the room and that endearing smile, she might have been carried away enough to accept).

Still, Rosalie wouldn't allow her offended sensibilities to get in the way. However impractical and frivolous in his personal affairs, Mordecai _was_ an impressive spirit traveler and a solid agent, and he _did_ have numerous contacts. If anyone could breach the ring of secrecy about the Wraith, it would be him. "You're right," she said briskly. "You don't, but for some inexplicable reason you have me anyway. Now kindly stop talking. The second act is starting." If he spoiled Dreschler for her, she'd never forgive him.

 _Josephine_ was rather sentimental, Rosalie had to admit. She was weeping by the end of the tragedy, and even Mordecai was making unobtrusive use of his handkerchief, as if ashamed of being affected. Foolish man.

###

Yet again, Flavian Temple knocked at the door to his best friend's rooms. "Mordecai," he called for the third time.

The door was finally opened by a bleary-eyed and squinting friend "Why the racket?" Mordecai asked him. He looked much the worse for wear. Flavian gathered that Mordecai had begun celebrating his reassignment privately.

"You asked me to help you pack for London," Flavian reminded him.

Mordecai blinked, then seemed to remember. "Oh that!" He waved Flavian inside the room. "I'm nearly done. It turns out there's not much to take. The Baker Street rooms are quite nicely furnished, apparently."

He sat down on chair and gestured for Flavian to take the one opposite. "Brandy?" He poured two glasses without waiting for an answer, and then offered one to Flavian. "I just have this mess to tidy up. It's not fair to leave it to the maids."

That was one of the things that made Mordecai so popular with the Castle's female staff, thought Flavian. He was thoughtful of everyone, from foreign attaches to the maid who turned down the beds, and he had a smile that Flavian couldn't begin to emulate.

That smile was rather forced today, as Mordecai chatted about the London assignment, shifting items off the table all the while. "I've got a few ideas about where to start already," he said, reaching for a velvet-covered box.

"What's that?" asked Flavian.

Unusually startled, Mordecai dropped the box, fumbled to catch it, and missed, knocking it onto the floor. Flavian picked it up. He was tempted to open it, but that would have been too much of an invasion of privacy.

Anyway, it was easy enough to guess the contents from the way Mordecai's eyes slid away as he took it back. So many things made sense suddenly: Mordecai's request for reassignment, the greater-than-usual chill that he'd observed in Rosalie and Mordecai's perpetual bickering, the early drinking.

Flavian cleared his throat. "It will be strange not having you here," he said awkwardly.

Mordecai smiled the same strained smile. "I know," he said. "But I already promised Rosalie to be back for every cricket match."

Flavian tapped at his glass. "She'll, ah, miss you quite a bit, I imagine," he broached.

"I imagine so," said Mordecai. "Who else will she have to lecture?" There was an uncharacteristic bitterness to the words. Even Mordecai seemed to have heard it because he winced and sighed. "I'll miss her anxiety for my welfare." That actually sounded more sincere than sarcastic.

Flavian hesitated, then decided to go ahead and ask. "She said no?"

Mordecai stilled. He opened his mouth, and then pulled his bag closer "If you can hand me that book," he said in lieu of answering. He waved at the table. "The Paxton." Silently, Flavian passed him the volume in question. Romance really wasn't his area - that was very much Mordecai's sphere - but he could take a hint.

 _Fin._


End file.
